Hit N Run
by alli-sun
Summary: /AU/ Zuko, the troubled firstborn of a ruthless gangster. Aang, the mischievous young vigilante. They meet on a rainy night, and their story opens the clouds.
1. Tryna Hit

**Hit N Run**

**Summary **– [AU] Zuko, the troubled firstborn of a ruthless gangster. Aang, the mischievous young vigilante. They meet on a rainy night, and their story opens the clouds.

**Warning – **This story includes violence, gang crime, rape, and homosexual relations.

**Disclaimer – **Nothing of ATLA belongs to me.

**A/N – **Zuko is 18 and Aang is 15 in this series. This is a complete AU that will parallel many things from ATLA, but at the same time add a sort of Batman charm to it. It also has an outline of 18 chapters. We'll see how that turns out. -.-

* * *

><p>Sweat, grime, and the faint perfume of a wet night. These are all the flavors that burst like fireworks in Zuko's mouth as he downs yet another shot of rum. Bile is but a necessary side effect, so he swallows the urge to grimace as well. That, he urgently reminds himself, would be distinctly unmanly.<p>

Zuko is sitting hunched over, alone at the bar. While there is _underaged_ written all over his face, his ID, a real one, is actually useful for something. One look at his last name, and there is a distinct change over any probing individual; a look of resignation, shock, maybe even fear. The nominal attachment is something he is fiercely proud of. And likewise, he takes advantage of it. "'nother one," he calls to the bartender.

"Hey sweetie," a velvety voice interrupts, sliding smoothly next to him and snatching his glass out of his hands just as smoothly. Squinting through the darkness and the flashing lights, Zuko seems some semblance of a young woman not far from his own age, leaning against the bar in a skimpy waitress uniform and frowning at him, as if concerned. "Don'tcha think that's enough for one night?"

The curves of her breast, the slim muscles that run through her arms and legs, the braid falling down her back. "Do I know you?" Because, Zuko thinks, he swears he does.

At that, she giggles. "Is that your pick-up line?" No, unless it's worth it. And seeing her body through the haze of alcohol, it's definitely worth it. "Alright, here's the deal. I give you a treat for the eyes, and you lay off the booze. Yeah?"

Zuko does nothing but nod. No use complaining about taking orders from a stripper. And besides, this has just made his night all the more eventful. The girl smiles, sets her tray down, and in one graceful leap she swoops herself onto the pole. That's when Zuko hears the laugh of the last person he wants to hear.

"Oh Zuzu, trying to be all grown up?"

Deflating a little, Zuko does not bother to turn around as he snaps, "Leave me alone." His eyes are on his prey.

A crisp snap of movement sounds behind him. Zuko groans. He should've expected this; his sister eleven months his junior leaps over his head with hardly any difficulty, landing on the bar with her legs crossed. Seeing him drunk, deflated, deprecated, Azula's lips slide smoothly into a smirk. "Well, fancy seeing you here at this time of night."

"Me?" Zuko says incredulously. "What about you?"

Azula raises an eyebrow. "Business," she says, as if it's obvious, but before Zuko could respond, Azula turns and orders, "Ty Lee, get off that silly pole _now_."

This is something he did not expect. The girl, the skimpy waitress dancer velvety-voiced girl, blinks and obeys his sister like a puppy. "You know her?" Zuko asks, slightly shocked, slightly enraged by her behavior.

"Of course," Azula raises an eyebrow. "She's the Contortionist."

"_You're_ the Contortionist?"

"That's what I just said. She's the Contortionist."

Ty Lee cringes visibly. "Please, please quiet down. We're banned from revealing code names in such public places."

Zuko, however, couldn't seem to let it go. "You're the one who uprooted Teo TEC from the inside! You even took down that S.W.A.T. team that invaded—"

"Zuko," Azula warns in a hiss.

"—last week!" Zuko finishes without giving away any names, nor giving a shit about the death glare Azula is sending him. "_You're_ the Contortionist?"

Ty Lee covers her eyes from hearing the considerable abuse of freedom of speech, while Azula rolls her eyes from her throne of a bar. "Yes, and she's also _leaving_"—Zuko gives a squawk of protest "—so why don't you go convince another girl to slap up some cheap sex for you?"

"She—"

"has better things to do than play with your cock all night," Azula interrupts smoothly.

A rush of rage hits him in the gut. Zuko bites his tongue testily at this insult to his dignity. Restraint. Calm, Think.

There are consequences for acting out of terms.

* * *

><p>"<em>Father?"<em>

_Zuko waits, but he is met with no answer other than the back of Ozai's head. The silence is only broken by the slow, ugly sound of saw blades in the other room; Zuko doesn't want to know what's happening there. Finally, the solidarity of the word becomes too much. Zuko continues. "Father, excuse me…I can't help but notice—"_

"_What." He deadpans._

_Zuko bites his tongue testily. Restraint. Calm. Think._

* * *

><p>But then he breaks. "Who the fuck are you to order me around?"<p>

"Order _you_ around?" Azula snorts incredulously. It's as if her tongue snaps into action, and it can't resist showing just how much smarter it is. "I'm simply giving orders to someone with whom you've gotten yourself tangled up. So untangle yourself, and soon, because she has a job to do. _I_ have a job to do."

Of course, Zuko thinks sulkily. Because Azula gets all the power.

* * *

><p><em>He takes a deep breath. "I heard you gave Azula a job."<em>

_Finally, a reaction. Ozai tenses noticeably, even lets the urgency show through the gruffness of his voice. "Where did you hear this?"_

"_Just around—"_

"_What do you know?"_

"_Nothing! That's all, that's literally all I know! You gave Azula a job!" Zuko says as quicklya s he can. He sees all too clearly that this is something confidential enough that not even he can know. Or, he thinks grimly, this is something important enough that he shouldn't be bothered with._

_He wonders if he should ask his next question: What about me?_

* * *

><p>Maybe it's the alcohol, or the estrogen built up from watching Ty Lee that his body is now confusing with adrenaline, maybe it's the tense bit of fear Zuko feels every time he has to face his father's henchmen, knowing that they have sworn loyalty to Ozai, Azula, but not him. Whatever it is, after listening to Azula talk down to him for the umpteenth time, it's telling him—<em>Let's shoot this bitch.<em>

"Zuko, no!" Ty Lee screeches before Zuko knows what he's doing. She grabs the bottle from his hands before he can strike, but it's too late. Azula has already chosen to strike back.

Everyone gathers 'round, not exactly to see two stupid kids get in a bar fight, but _Ozai's children_ turn a bar fight into a deadly contest of martial arts. Mix in more spilt beer and a couple of screaming go-go dancers, and they have the best night of the week. But Zuko has yet to land a hit.

* * *

><p>"<em>Don't think you can step out of your boundaries, Zuko—"<em>

"_Why do I have different boundaries than _her_?" Zuko can't help but ask snidely out of the corner of his mouth._

"_I've had enough of this."_

* * *

><p>Zuko punches with a fist of pure rage, but dear, sweet Azula twists it back in and nearly dislocates his elbow.<p>

* * *

><p>"<em>Leave. Now. And think about your place in this world."<em>

"_Father—"_

* * *

><p>He kicks out from under her and manages to get out of her grip. She regains her form. Of course; she never seems to lose it.<p>

* * *

><p>"<em>Perhaps when you've finished, you'll have realized…"<em>

_Don't say it._

"…_why Azula is better suited for this than you."_

* * *

><p>"NO!" Zuko nearly kills his little sister with a chair raised high above his head when the bouncers come in to fold his arms around his back. Azula remains, lying as still as a statue on the tiled floor, eyes teasing him with that infuriating look. <em>You wouldn't have been able to do it anyway<em>, they are saying.

"Alright, out you go."

"Do you know who I am?" He fights mindlessly, thinking of every possible terrible thing he could do to these men for kicking him out in such an undignified manner. But something in him stops, as if he suddenly understands something, and he goes limp in their arms. His powerless position? Or the pointlessness in this entire night? Whatever it is, Zuko stops. He surrenders.

Grateful that he's finally ceased in threatening to make them eat their balls, they say kindly but gruffly, "Even so, out you go." Then they hand him a wad of bills in the hopes that Ozai won't track them down and have their bowels for dinner. Before he knows it, he's out in the middle of the streets, in the middle of the night. And it's raining.

Sweat, grime, and plenty of garbage rotting in the wetness of it all.

* * *

><p>It's times like these when you regret wearing a t-shirt.<p>

Zuko staggers down concrete roads with all the effects of alcohol hitting him like a train. What time is it? Who cares? Maybe all people should walk this way. It makes moving in the rain considerably harder, takes considerably longer, and everyone needs to get wet once in a while. It allows him to think. Sort of.

There are sounds behind him, disquieting little footsteps, but they don't bother him. He can't really hear them anyway, so maybe they don't really exist. "So…fucking stupid…"

More footsteps. He knows he should feel worry from the prickles running down into his heart. He doesn't even turn around.

"Goddamn worthless…"

They're coming closer.

The moment Zuko turns to puke into the dumpster, four pairs of hands grab his limbs and sprint down the rest of the alleyway as fast as they can.

"What the—let me go!" Zuko lashes out, kicking and punching wherever he can. Except he can't, really. A drunken teenager doesn't stand a chance against four determined and sober men. "Get off me!"

Shit, where are their faces? They have none, just black night in their eyes. "Get _off _me!"

They knee him in the gut before he has a chance to get a good look at them, and also to shut him up for good measure. Zuko groans and feels puke rise up his throat again, just in time to mix in with the blood. It's fucked up and he's had enough, but when he tries to escape again, they knee him square in the chest. He closes his eyes and wishes for nothing more than for this night to end.

When Zuko opens his eyes, he's shocked to see his wish granted.

They are sitting tied together in the strangest of ways, hidden in the alleyway crevice with amusing gags at their mouths. It's odd, but whatever extravagant means it takes to get them off him, he's more than happy with. Zuko stands up groggily. The rain pours down harder than ever. He can barely see. But he wants to get up close and find out who they _hell_ they are…

A light touch stops him. Zuko turns. His eyes pop out.

A lean figure in black, wearing the brightest of masks next to the worst of days. The mask is half-covered with pristine orange paint, somehow reminding him of the fired torches he uses when he fights. This character seems to be immune to the depressing touch of the rain; maybe even younger than Zuko, and far more stable. Whoever he is, he's pointing at the four tied men and saying with a repetitive nod: _Let them go. _

"…What?" Zuko whispers hoarsely, swearing he must've heard those words out loud. Nothing but rain patters in the silence. He waits, though.

_Let them go. Go home._

"Who are you?" Zuko asks, wanting to get a closer look, the rain acting like a window between him, a dismal interior, and a beautiful wonderland of a person. "Did you do this?" The masked figure just seems to stare at him imploringly. Finally, he gives up and obeys.

Zuko takes a step in the right direction at the mask's encouraging nod, and then he goes on with his feet in one direction and the head facing the other, wondering how long he could go without losing sight of the happy orange mask. It stays with him until he must turn away, and then he can almost hear the sounds of a young boy leaping over buildings, like dreams he used to have when he thought he could fly.

"I am way too fucking drunk."


	2. Morning After

**Hit N Run**

**Summary **– Zuko, the troubled firstborn of a ruthless gangster. Aang, the mischievous young vigilante. They meet on a rainy night, and their story opens the clouds.

**Warning – **This story includes violence, gang crime, rape, and homosexual relations.

**Disclaimer – **Nothing of ATLA belongs to me.

* * *

><p>At 6:32 in the morning, Aang returns to the kitchen window just in time to see Katara emptying the dishwashers.<p>

Moments like these make his life go a little more slowly, feel a little less bloody, and a little more real. He watches, silent for a moment, looking over all the clean cabinets and scrubbed tiles. Katara absent-mindedly rubs the sleep out of her eyes as she works, always stacking up plates neatly on the counter before returning them to their cabinets. Only when she goes to the window to water the plants does she see Aang's masked face plastered against the glass.

"Aang!" She screams when she sticks her head out the door. "Come inside, you nearly gave me a heart attack!"

"Morning Katara," Aang smiles, ripping off the mask to reveal his strikingly young face. "Coffee?"

She picks up his mask and shoves it in his hands, looking around to make sure no one has just seen Aang walked in decked out in spandex. "You're too young for that," Katara scolds, disappearing for a moment to the laundry room and returning with a t-shirt and baggy sweatpants. "Besides, I have to brew it thin for the morning crowd. We're beginning to run out."

"I could fundraise for you!"

"You could put these on for me," Katara corrects, throwing the spare clothes at him. She takes a moment to observe him. Grinning as always, but slower than usual. Slightly red in the eyes. "You've been out all night again, haven't you?"

Aang avoids the question altogether. "We could get all the kids to put on an act. A performance! And people would buy tickets and pay money, and that'll keep the soup kitchen going for a long time—"

"Aang, why do you keep doing this to yourself?" Katara demands. "It'll only get you hurt!"

"Oh, I'm fine," Aang says brightly. "Look, you can check. No bruises, see?"

Katara gives him a cross look. "You know," She says, "I still don't understand why you have to go out like this at all. The police can take care of it."

"The police can't cover everything."

"You don't know that," Katara argues desperately, "because you go around doing your own thing."

"Katara," Aang snaps for the first time, "Look. All I know is that at about two in the morning, the police on night shift were busy ticketing a bunch of teenagers racing each other home, and the rest of the patrols were taking a nice nap in their cozy leather car seats. And with all that, I saw someone trying to fight off four big guys at once. Are you saying I shouldn't take care of that?"

She closes her eyes after listening to his rant, finally saying quietly, "I'm just saying you should take care of yourself too."

Aang's hard grey eyes soften a little, but not enough to agree with her. Katara hands him a juice box. He accepts it without a word and goes upstairs to his bunk.

* * *

><p>At 6:32 in the morning, Zuko tries to sneak in through the back of his uncle's tea shop.<p>

It's not entirely successful, especially when he trips over a sack of rice and makes a small ruckus. It would've been fine if he didn't hear quiet humming from the kitchens. Zuko swears inwardly when he hears his uncle call, "Zuko? Is that you?" And that's it. He dashes upstairs.

Two minutes later, Zuko returns showered and nearly refreshed. "Good morning," He greets levelly.

"And where have you been all night?" Iroh asks, smiling (skeptically).

"Early morning jogging. Just got back." Zuko grabs a roll and starts chewing, having found out a long time ago that it's a great excuse to avoid talking. And he can't exactly look his uncle in the eye right now.

Then, Iroh pauses. "You have a cut on your cheek."

"Ran into a branch," Zuko says, mouth muffled.

"And you have scrapes on your arms," Iroh continues, frowning. Zuko allows the silence to be prolonged, hoping his uncle would just forget about it. "Lift up your shirt."

"What?" He squawks, half-eaten roll still in his open mouth.

"Zuko, let me see," Iroh says seriously, and for a very, very short moment, he reminds Zuko of his father. Sullenly, he lifts up the hem of his shirt, revealing the bruises coloring his abdomen and chest. They've bloomed into a lovely purplish-yellow.

"Who did this?" Iroh demands, sounding outraged.

"Well…" Zuko begins grudgingly, "Azula—"

"Your sister?"

"Yes—no! Not only her—let me explain…" And Zuko coughs up last night's story like puke: the embarrassing encounter with Ty Lee, the bar fight with Azula, and finally, the unhappy run-in with the four unnamed.

"And they just left you there?" Iroh asks, brows furrowed. "Are you telling me they ambushed you for no reason and just _left_?"

"No," Zuko says honestly, "I think they were attempting kidnap…but…someone saved me."

Iroh raises his eyebrows. "Who?"

He looks up from the ground. Iroh stares at him imploringly. "…I don't know," Zuko manages.

Iroh seems to understand, and doesn't argue after this, simply sighs and sends him to bed. Jin to take the morning shift, and Zuko would do best to avoid any clubs that Azula and her lackeys might frequent (which, he stresses, means all of them). Zuko trudges upstairs, collapsing on his wearily-framed bed and wondering why his uncle bothers to stay so nice to him.

* * *

><p>Aang sleeps on top of a triple bunk bed that Katara's father made, once upon a time. He's shared the bunk with three other triple bunks in a crowded room with nothing else but sheets and posters for his entire life. As the other children wake up, ages ranging from six to his own, fifteen, he feels the questions coming.<p>

"Aang! Did you beat up bad guys last night again?"

"How many were there?"

"Did you do that really cool knot trick to tie them up?"

"Why didn't you bring me with you?"

"Everyone, Aang needs some sleep," Katara says as she enters the room. "And a little less encouragement. Come on, it's breakfast time!"

Aang watches her lead them out, despite their groaning and complaining. He smiles sleepily and pulls his quilt over himself.

The homeless shelter at which Katara works has been his home for as long as he can remember. And he does remember the wonderful woman who used to run it, with young Katara toddling along at her side, always determined to help. Only a few years older than Aang, Katara often acts as if she's got decades on him, especially after that wonderful woman passed away. And ever since then, Katara pulls more than her own weight trying to keep the place going, along with a handful of volunteers from the university.

They grew up together, learning and playing, mostly playing on Aang's part. There was a time when he went to school, because Katara's mother liked for the children to get an education. He didn't enjoy it, but he did play tricks on the bullies who used to push smaller kids off swings and trip them on their way to the bathroom. Innocent, yes, malicious, yes, but violent, no. He simply felt a joy at seeing their shoe laces tied and their lunches stolen to hand out as treats behind their backs.

They got older. But so did Aang. They got stronger, but Aang got faster.

Before he knew it, he was copying moves he saw in movies to defend himself. Scary part was he was good at it, great even, enough to ward them off and become the playground's protector in a sense. It earned him detentions and many talks with the principle, so finally Katara's mother had a firm talk with him and he was forbidden to fight on school premises. Aang listened. He took it to the streets instead. Fight fire with humor.

Replace bullets with paint ammo. Glue burglar's hands to doorknobs. Tie them up like a bundle of wildflowers and knock them cold just long enough to be discovered. Defeat them doesn't mean kill them. It doesn't even mean hurt them.

The door bangs open from downstairs, and Aang hears Sokka's loud voice crow good morning. Footsteps in the hallway signal the adults coming downstairs. Rarely do they sleep here unless their situation is especially dreary, but when they do Aang certainly doesn't mind. Haru and his dad have spent the week doing repairs on the house to compensate for their stay, and the couple with the newborn baby allows everyone to play with her. Hope, her name is.

Aang hears Haru and Sokka laugh loudly as Katara yells at Sokka about something. Finally, he steps upstairs in full police uniform and grins at Aang. "She mad at you too?"

"Very," Aang mumbles, cheek against pillow. He surveys Sokka, taking in the cap, badge, and everything in between. "I thought you only had to wear that in the field."

"I'm always in the field, Aang," Sokka whispers theatrically. "There's danger at every twist and turn, and I am always prepar—OW!"

Aang laughs and retreats as Sokka bends to nurse his pinched nose. "You're too goddamn fast," he grumbles, albeit good-naturedly. "So, how'd last night go. Anything good?"

"Four guys jumped a loner at around two," Aang says lightly, "I think he was intoxicated. I stayed around to make sure he got home alright, though."

Sokka shakes his head disbelievingly. "Should've let my dad take care of that, man."

"He was kept busy," Aang shrugs. "He's very good at his job."

"And I'm better," Sokka smirks, mock-saluting him. "See you around, Aang."

"Don't accidentally shoot yourself, Sokka." Aang closes his eyes to the sight of Sokka sticking his tongue out adamantly. He sleeps comfortably. Who needs school, when you had Katara cooking breakfast and Sokka playing policeman?

* * *

><p>Zuko wonders how it's possible to have nightmares with the sunlight pouring into his bedroom.<p>

He feels someone shaking him awake just as he hears Ozai's voice—_I've had enough of this trash, you take care of him_—and those cold, faceless men—partners of his father's, cronies, allies, hit men, whatever they were, they were all there—_about time we can get rid of him_—_doesn't know shit about this business—let's fuck him like a girl, see if he's useful for something—_

"Zuko!" Jin gasps when Zuko attempts to fight her off. "Zuko, it's me! It's Jin!"

"What?" Zuko says wildly, finally focusing on brown-haired, brown-eyed Jin and the hot cup of tea in her hands. "Jin? What are you doing here?"

"Iroh said you weren't feeling well," Jin said, setting the tea down. "Let me see." And there could only be one thing she was talking about.

Zuko groans. "No." He really doesn't feel like showing his memento to another pair of prying eyes.

"I have salve with me, and I'm not afraid to use it."

"Okay fine."

Jin smirks, knowing that he's recalling the time when she rammed the wet stuff down his pants when he refused to let her patch up a wound on his arm. Zuko pulls the covers off and lifts his shirt up hesitantly. Jin's eyes widen.

"Oh wow, that's awful." She reaches out with two fingers and presses gently. Zuko winces but doesn't make a sound. "I'll make this quick, all the university kids are coming in before class."

"Class," Zuko mutters, and then groans. "Shit." Another 10:30 Medieval War Tactics that he's already missed. Jin watches him scowl at himself.

"You know," She says, smoothing the salve over his chest, "I always had this theory. You want to hear it? I always thought that my boss' nephew was a really smart guy. Despite making mistakes, skipping class, I always thought he'd make it." Jin finishes and presses firmly for good measure. "Please don't prove me wrong."

Zuko stares at her on her way out as she says good-bye and begins her job. _She doesn't even know the half of it._

Yeah, Jin knows about the rough talk and less-than-desirable company Zuko sometimes keeps. She knows about his record, stacked with felonies and petty thievery, though Iroh always manages to convince him to plead guilty and take the community service and jail sentence with pride. But she doesn't know why.

He needs the safety that only his father can provide. If only he would look at him with something other than disgust, and maybe with trust and pride, as he looks at Azula. There's that burning need Zuko feels, to do something as wild and ruthless as Azula's dirty work, to prove himself and meet his father eye to eye. Only when that time comes would Ozai shield him from the men. Because right now, they take him for shit. And that, he shudders, is the reality of his nightmare.


	3. Money in the Bank

**Hit N Run**

**Summary **– Zuko, the troubled firstborn of a ruthless gangster. Aang, the mischievous young vigilante. They meet on a rainy night, and their story opens the clouds.

**Warning – **This story includes violence, gang crime, rape, and homosexual relations.

**Disclaimer – **Nothing of ATLA belongs to me.

**A/N – **Don't hate Zuko too much, he's just trying to be a good boy.

* * *

><p>Cereal and cold milk hit the bowl with a <em>shuffle<em>, _gloop_, and _clatter_ as Zuko silently spoons himself breakfast for lunch.

From the other side of the door, Iroh's voice wanders over. "Zuko?" along with the sounds of customers and their hot tea. Iroh budges the door open with an elbow, a tray of empty cups in his hands. "Awake, I see. How are you feeling?"

"Fine," Zuko mutters. Seeing his uncle in the morning light, he wonders how the kind old man could've possibly been a menace like his father. Once just as scheming, ruthless, and intimidating. But the veteran eyes and grey beard don't lie. As far as Zuko can tell, he retreated out of weakness, not out of will, and the more Zuko lives with him, the more he'll be infected with his kindness. He averts his eyes, and sees a newspaper fly through the kitchen door, the screams of a young woman hot on its trails.

"Oh dear," Iroh says, face dropping dramatically as he rushes out, "Now calm down, calm down, I'm sure he didn't mean that—of course you're not fat, just look at _my_ belly…"

Zuko wipes his mouth. His next class isn't until evening, he may as well stay here and help his uncle reassure female customers of their figure before they run out of business. He reaches for his apron and is about to head out front—when something catches his eye.

Maybe it's that blur of orange, or an echo of a laugh in printed words. Whatever it is, it's pulling him close, stronger than the likes of gravity, so he picks it up, unfolds it, and reads.

_Cutting Curfew to Protect the Law?_

_ Last night at 2:26 am, four men were reportedly found drugged and bound by the entrance of Smoyer Park. Upon regaining consciousness and undergoing questioning from the police, they urgently denied any wrongdoing and demanded immediate release. They are currently still under questioning._

_ This scene is not unfamiliar. In the past three months, there have been four other instances in which criminals are "pre-packaged" for arrest, usually with a note left detailing their crimes. The notes are light and playful in nature, and always end with, "We are very sorry". In this case there was no note, but a small bundle of weapons found lying beside them, assumed to be theirs._

_ Though police deny any knowledge or relation to this activity, many citizens believe these nightly parcels may correlate to recent events revolving around a masked young man now called "The Avatar"._

_ Quick, agile, and somewhat of a trickster himself, "The Avatar" has often been sighted stopping crimes such as shoplifting, vandalism, and drug dealing. Most sightings occur in early morning or late evening. According to estimations of height and build, he must be no older than sixteen but no younger than twelve._

_ "This 'Avatar' is an admirable guy for many young people," Officer Arnook says. "But I doubt he's the one going out in the middle of the night and taking down guys three times his size. I think he's just dressing up as a superhero to amuse his friends."_

_ Officer Arnook's opinion reflects the high majority of police opinion. None of the criminals previously bound in this situation have admitted to encountering such a character, though one of them vaguely recalls the color orange. According to police records, he said, "Orange…I saw orange moving…" This, Arnook insists, means nothing, as the individual was substance intoxicated at the time._

Orange mask. Smiling silence. The words burn themselves in Zuko's mind as bright as day, just like the photo, just like the figure standing alone that night. But before he can finish, thin fingers whip the newspaper out of his hands.

"What the fuck, give that ba—" he begins furiously, but then he catches Mai's eyes.

Stoic, sharp, and always perfectly dressed, his friend with benefits—_not_ girlfriend oh no—shoots him a calculating look. Feeling oddly intimidated, Zuko shuts his mouth and waits until she gives a little smile (which is, for her, the warmest bear-hug you could imagine) and throws the newspaper in the trash.

"Good afternoon," She says, slipping him a kiss on the cheek. "Are you busy?"

Zuko shoots a sidelong glance at the teashop front, where there still lingers a small commotion. Jin has left, Iroh is alone at work. "I don't know…"

"Your father wants to see you."

Zuko's gaze snaps back. "What?"

"Follow me."

* * *

><p>Meeting in broad daylight really isn't a problem when you own nearly half the businesses on the upper east side. Just past the innocent doors of an old antique shop, Zuko knows sits his father, Azula, maybe half a dozen or so men he trusts enough. He steps inside and resists the urge to cough—there is a peculiar scent of smoke, mixed in with dust and traces of cocaine, and the constant presence of blood red antiques.<p>

His father likes red.

"In here," Mai says, breezing past him into a smaller, separate room. The walls are covered with clocks, all set precisely to the same time. Right beside the one in the shape of a hawk, Azula's face looks softly bored and sharply vicious at the same time. Zuko stands to greet Ozai.

"Father."

"Sit down."

Unlike Azula, Ozai keeps little facial expression. His face is deceivingly handsome instead, and by this aspect alone he is equally frightening. He gives Zuko his task, his very first, and Zuko listens carefully.

This is, after all, his first real chance to prove himself. He's not about to take it lightly.

* * *

><p>"Everybody down! Nobody move!" Zuko watches as people scream and duck at his mercy. It's almost as if they feel his own fear. "Give me all your money!"<p>

He keeps his gun trained on the shaking man behind the counter and doesn't notice a wide-eyed teenage boy disappear behind the corner. He throws bag after bag of Ben Franklins to his accomplices, his father gifted him with three, and doesn't stop until he hears sirens in the distance.

"This is the last of them," he says, running after the others into the van until he realizes something. "Hey, _where are you going_?"

And as the police draw nearer, the van draws farther, and Zuko is stuck panicking on the sidewalk with a knife in one hand and a gun in the other. Of all things he'd expected, he could not have foreseen a suicide mission.

He runs, but this is an open area, there are little places to hide. Glancing at the bank, where they would recognize his blue mask, he tears it off and keeps on sprinting into nothingness. Suddenly, a hand grabs onto him.

"Let go!" Zuko practically screams, snatching his wrist from a curiously small hand. He looks down. Then up into the hand's owner. The Avatar.

When Zuko halts to a stop out of pure shock, the Avatar takes the opportunity to grab a hold of his wrist once more and steer him block after block in the direction of a local gas station, where the emptiness attracts little attention and they can hide behind a large truck. They collapse together, heaving to catch their breath.

The Avatar hands him his mask.

Zuko stares at it, compares it to the bright orange mask next to it, and sees only a sad blue lion frowning at him in disappointment. Zuko closes his eyes. He's about to take it back, when he catches a whiff of something in the air.

"You dosed this in chloroform," Zuko says, more of an accusation than a question. The Avatar pauses, the silence of his mask staring back at him. Then he nods.

"The van, did you stop that too?" Zuko asks urgently, suddenly forgetting their betrayal and hoping to God almighty the money had gotten out alright. But the Avatar nods again. His spirits sink. "You ruined everything!" Zuko roars, tearing away, now realizing the gravity of what has just happened. The Avatar grabs him desperately, trying to reason with him, but Zuko can only see his own failure. He barely sees himself slice through just enough skin to get the Avatar's arm off him, but it happens anyway.

As Zuko runs free, the Avatar sits bleeding on the sidewalk. Neither sees the hurt look behind the mask of the other as they focus on their own pain.

* * *

><p>That evening, Mai informs him of his new mission.<p>

The Avatar has become too much of a nuisance for Ozai, unwittingly throwing himself onto the scene of more and more business dealings, legal and illegal. His cheeky interference has gone too far, especially as the three men trapped into the van nearly gave the police his name (one of his false aliases, but then again Ozai uses those just as often). And he must be dealt with.

Capture the Avatar, or you're not welcome back home. And no, Mai would not like a kiss good night. She disappears into the night without another word.


	4. Private Jets

**Hit N Run**

**Summary **– Zuko, the troubled firstborn of a ruthless gangster. Aang, the mischievous young vigilante. They meet on a rainy night, and their story opens the clouds.

**Warning – **This story includes violence, gang crime, rape, and homosexual relations.

**Disclaimer – **Nothing of ATLA belongs to me.

* * *

><p>They ask what is the first thing you do when you get out of jail. For Jet, it's find a job and a hot cup of tea.<p>

"Hey old man! Over here!" He calls from his little table in the corner. The place smells like rice grain, scented steam, and fresh soap. It's nothing like the hard staleness of his cell, so it's the perfect place to go. Despite the bustling scene around him, the smiling old man goes patiently from table to table, taking and filling orders. Jet frowns and calls out again. "Hey! Can you hear me?"

"One moment!" The old man calls back, turning back to the family of four sitting before him. "And this particular brew I made myself, from flowers imported from—oh my nephew, you're here! Why don't you wait on that young man over there, he sounds very thirsty."

Jet's attention averts over to the scarred young man entering the shop. Sturdy in build, yet somehow still dejected-looking in stance, the nephew looks like he sincerely does not want to be here. Nevertheless, he silently obeys his uncle and makes a beeline for Jet's table. The brutal scar framing his left eye almost makes Jet respect him. That is, until he opens his mouth.

"Welcome to the Jasmine Dragon, we serve tea as fine and hot as dragon's fire itself," he says stiffly from memorization, not looking at Jet as he snaps his pad open to a clean page. "How may I help you?"

"Depends, you got any job openings here?"

This cheeky little statement causes the young man to raise his eyes and take a good look at his customer. Bronze from the sun, _dangerously_ handsome, without a doubt, but slightly scrawny from his time in juvie, Jet sits as confidently as ever. And now that he has his attention, he levels his eyes with his waiter. "You're about my age, eh?" Jet says, unable to resist. "Good bit shorter though."

This makes him to grit his teeth in annoyance. "Do we look like we need help around here?"

"If this is what you call customer service, then yeah."

"I never asked to serve the likes of you."

"I'm not asking for much," Jet says calmly, "just whatever free shifts you have and a bed to sleep in for a few nights before I find a place of my own. I'll do as much work you need, free of charge. Except for maybe a hot cup or two."

At this, the young man rolls his eyes in annoyance. "Look, we don't take in strays."

"Oh?" Jet says, genuinely surprised. "Then what are you?"

"How dare—!"

"What's going on?" the old man finally comes around. "Why haven't you given the customer his tea yet?"

"I'd like a cup o' red, please," Jet says, face cheerful alongside his waiter's steaming red face. "Would you like any help washing dishes afterward?"

"Of course! I always welcome a helping hand," the old man replies without missing a beat, and then peers at the young man beside him. He could practically see the steam coming out his ears. "My dear nephew, what's gotten into you?"

* * *

><p>"So you see," Jet says in a conclusive tone as he stands over the sink, talking to the old tea shop owner through the small window to the front, "I spent a lot of time thinking about my actions in juvie. It made me realize how many mistakes I've made. All this time, I thought I was right when I fought fire with fire. But I wasn't. Now I'm ready for a fresh start."<p>

"That is very admirable," the old man smiles warmly. "I think everybody should be given a second chance. You're doing very well already."

"Yeah, well, the Avatar is really inspirational," Jet nods, now beginning to stack up clean cups on his right and moving on to the dirty ones on his left.

"…the Avatar?" the old man suddenly hesitates. "You've heard of him?"

Jet blinks. "I knew him personally," he says. "Before juvie, back when he first began to fight crime. He didn't start taking up against Ozai's people until after I got arrested, I hear, but he's been doing it ever since. He has a way with crime that I think is amazing. Most talented kid I ever saw, even against the likes of Ozai. I think he might be the answer."

As he listens, the old man's frown becomes deeper and deeper. "Ozai is a very dangerous name," he says slowly, "few know of him, and even fewer know him. You should not associate yourself with him."

Jet shakes his head solemnly. "Too late. That bastard's the reason why my parents are dead…"

* * *

><p>As the two converse, Zuko watches from afar with narrowed eyes, catching a few words and not liking what he hears at all. Collecting dirty cups and unfinished sweets along the way, he walks over with purpose and demands, "Uncle, what are you—"<p>

"Ah, there you are!" Iroh exclaims loudly, a slightly strained smile now gracing his features. "Jet, I don't think I've properly introduced you. This is my nephew, _Li_."

"Nice to meet you," Jet smirks at Zuko's bewildered face, not noticing Iroh gesturing wildly with his eyebrows. "That's a pretty common name, isn't it? And yours?" he asks, turning to Iroh, who composes himself immediately.

"I'm—"

"_Mushi_," Zuko interrupts cleanly, sending his glaring uncle a sardonic look before dumping the tray of dirty cups in the sink. Seeing the suds fly into Jet's hair, Zuko smirks grimly. "Hope you're having fun."

"Oh, I am!" Jet returns nastily, turning on the hot water with much more force than necessary. "So glad you're here to help, Li, I don't know what I'd do without you! You have any more dirty cups? What size? 36A? B? That seems a little small for you, why don't you try bigger?"

As Jet's loud jibes causes heads to turn, Zuko resists the urge to bash his head against the wall. Why, oh why, did they allow him in?

* * *

><p>When Katara finds Aang by following the trail of blood, she actually bashes her head against the wall. "Aang!" She shouts, pinching her brow in frustration, "Oh my goodness, what's happened <em>now<em>?"

Aang jumps guiltily, holding the blood red rag tightly against his arm as he turns around to face Katara. "Sorry, I'll clean it up—"

"Oh, who cares about the floor?" Katara snaps, striding over and dragging Aang to the sink. "I'll just make Sokka clean it up. You need to come over here right now. I can't believe you didn't find me first!"

"But I just got here!"

"Make who clean what up?" a voice trails over from upstairs, and then Sokka appears twirling his police hat on his finger. "What's going on—oh lordy-lord _Aang_ what's happened now?"

Aang doesn't have a chance to answer as Katara procures a new rag and presses down, _hard_. "Owww," he cries, "Katara, you're gonna slice the rest of my arm off."

"We need to stop the bleeding," Katara scolds. Aang can't deny she has the hands of a healer, but he can say her sympathy slows when she's angry. "And afterward we can wash it; you probably got it all dirty with that old rag. Sokka, get some baby soap, it'll be easier on the wound."

"Holy jabberwocky, Aang is this blood yours?" Sokka cries, ignoring Katara as he follows the dripping trail to the front of the house. "Why were you out in broad daylight like this? I thought you went to the bank to exchange the kids' coins."

"I did," Aang insists, "I just got sidetracked."

"By what?" Sokka demands. "Aw horse shit, you got some on the door knob too. Katara, do I seriously have to clean all this up?"

Katara pointedly ignores Sokka as she begins to run cold water on Aang's forearm. They stay silent for a moment. The only sounds come from the running water, the children playing in the backyard, the little radio Katara keeps in the living room. After a while, Sokka tosses them the baby soap and sets to scrubbing blood off the floor. They occasionally hear him muttering to himself about how he should clean up crime, not kitchens.

When Katara pulls back the rag and pours sudsy cool water onto the wound, she receives a soft "thank you" and a familiar look of appreciation. And now that she sees the wound for what it is, she raises an eyebrow and says, "It's actually not too bad. The blade just scraped a vein, that's why you bled so much."

"I knew it," Aang sighs, holding himself up with what dignity he can muster. As Katara is still holding his arm hostage to bandage it, it's not much. "I keep telling you, stop worrying so much about me."

At this, Katara returns to glaring at him crossly. "What do you mean, stop worrying about you? A cut one day, a bruise another; soon you'll come back with burns and gun wounds. For goodness sake Aang, the world isn't your playground. Can't you tell you're not just playing games anymore?"

"I never said I was playing games," Aang argues. "I'm seeing a pattern here, a _real_ one. If you'd just let me help, I know I can find something out—"

"No," Katara shakes her head firmly, "not with the way you handle things. Honestly, switching monopoly money with wallets of _armed_ pickpockets? Pie-ing _armed_ drug dealers in the face? I don't care how noble your intentions are. You can't just dish out jokes and not expect it to stab you in the back, _literally_."

Aang's face becomes steadily more and more sullen as he realizes the truth in Katara's words, even though a large part of him still refuses to believe it.

"Not everyone thinks life is fun and games."

"Well, everyone should."

"You think that because you're fifteen, and they're not." Katara pauses, wondering if it's worth lecturing further. "…Alright, now go outside and explain to the kids why you've lost all their piggy bank money. Sokka, I see you sneaking off with ramen in your hands, get back here!"

* * *

><p>Zuko didn't ask to see the movie. But Iroh insists that he enjoy himself, so naturally he kicks him out of the shop. It has raving reviews, Iroh says, and it seems like just the kind of film he would like.<p>

The movie is black and white with a faint sepia tone, nothing like the brightly-colored, action- and sex-packed blockbusters that fill the theater every weekend. Zuko sits in the back, because it's close to the door and hard to be disturbed. When the movie starts, he realizes he didn't even read the summary. Bad idea, he realizes later on. Really bad idea.

He rolls his eyes for the hundredth time in an attempt to ignore the burn of tears in his throat, threatening to break free onto his face as the movie reveals the slowly heart-breaking story of a mother and her child caught in the middle of the Japanese Invasion. It's not entirely himself he sees, but he does see bits and pieces of his mother; regal and beautiful, yet somehow still nurturing and humble. Later, gone and dead.

Memories long forgotten trickle in slowly, as he wonders for the hundredth time _where did you go, and why? _Spraining his shoulder, running from a furious swarm of bees, and always he could envelope himself in her arms. A small birthday cake she baked herself. Trips to the dog shelter, where she always promises he can get one of his own if he's good. And he would be, he was determined to be.

Zuko stubbornly checks his watch for the hundredth time. When the movie merely proves half over, he can't take it anymore. He gets up, knocking over his popcorn on the way, and walks out of the theater.

There is no point in dwelling in the past, he decides, when there is a future to look to. The past is faint and faded. So he wipes away those memories like raindrops from a window. What once was his mother he longed to find now must become the Avatar.


	5. Blown My Cover

**Hit N Run**

**Summary **– Zuko, the troubled firstborn of a ruthless gangster. Aang, the mischievous young vigilante. They meet on a rainy night, and their story opens the clouds.

**Warning – **This story includes violence, gang crime, rape, and homosexual relations.

**Disclaimer – **Nothing of ATLA belongs to me.

* * *

><p><em>HARDER . BETTER . FASTER . STRONGER<em>

The first thing he hears out of anyone's mouth when it comes to the Avatar is: "That kid is fast, and damn is he strong."

Having trained in kong fu, double broadswords, and most importantly, Northern Shaolin, nearly all his life, Zuko shouldn't be intimidated. Fact is, he _is._ Especially because a strange part of him still leaps at the thought of the Avatar, when it should bear its fangs to take down its enemy instead. He is shocked, and a little disturbed, that he is this close to thinking of the mysterious figure as friend, not foe. Zuko can't afford weakness now, not of any kind, so he trains.

It begins only in his free time. But after only a week and a half, he begins to cut time off studying or working in the tea shop and go to the gym or meditate instead. Some professors notice, but having never had the chance to get close to Zuko, they hardly have time to care. Jin notices and becomes highly suspicious, he can hear her whispering to Iroh when she thinks he isn't listening. Before long it almost gets as awkward as that time she decided she liked him and looked at him expectantly every time they bumped heads. But Zuko manages to avoid her, and the rest of them. He finds peace in his solitude. His meditation.

Zuko has always found comfort in the heat of the fireplace, the burn of incense. He knew from a young age he had a high heat tolerance. Steaming showers. Sweaty t-shirts. Hot breath. Burning muscles. It's all torture that he enjoys. It's even the easier part of his training.

The downside, Zuko realizes, is that he has no experience stalking people. And knowing the Avatar's evasive nature, that could prove quite the problem.

* * *

><p>Zuko loves his uncle to death, but honestly he hates him sometimes.<p>

"I see you were looking up local high schools," he mentions casually, though his eyes clearly show he _does not mean it casually_.

"Yeah, so?"

"So, you're a second semester college freshman. Are you really considering going back to high school?" Iroh talks as if he means to tease. And worse yet, he always keeps talking even if Zuko refuses to answer, meaning the only thing that could stop him would be Zuko saying something worthwhile back. "You are doing well in your studies. Don't start going backwards."

"I'm not looking at high schools to _go _to them—" Zuko begins furiously, but then cuts himself off. He didn't mean to admit that.

"Oh?" Iroh asks, allowing the unanswered questions to feather away. He considers his nephew silently for a moment, and then continues on a different track. "So much training you have done lately, one would think you are thinking of going around, picking fights."

"I don't pick fights," Zuko says automatically, knowing what a lie that is when it comes to Azula.

"Good," Iroh says, thoroughly unconvinced. "I was worried you might _go looking_ for trouble.

"Nope."

"You aren't _looking _for anything?" Iroh continues, the knowingness now deep in his voice, his eyes, his frowning mouth. Zuko's heart sinks when he realizes his uncle knows everything, has always seemed to know more about Zuko than anybody else. "My dear nephew, if you ever do want to go looking for something, you need look no further than within yourself. There, you will find your answer." With that said, he finally leaves Zuko alone.

The worst part about Uncle Iroh is that he never stops Zuko from doing the wrong thing, confident that he can stop himself, even though Zuko knows he can't.

* * *

><p>"Hey hot stuff," Jet's voice drifts to the small, concrete backyard of the tea shop, causing Zuko's hair to stand on end, "I saw you working your swords there...and I was wondering if you were ready for some real practice."<p>

With a sharp trill of metal, he brandishes his twin hooks with pride. Zuko wonders where the fuck did he get those if he was just recently released from juvie. But no matter, he decides, because if Jet is really giving him a chance to wipe that stupid grin off his face, then so be it. "I'm ready."

They fight in circles, they climb buildings, they just barely miss, they just barely save themselves, they block and strike, but neither seems to really make it in this fight because they both understand the advantages of having two swords rather than one, so like the duality of the swords, it's an even match. A stale mate waiting to happen.

When Jin finally demands they stop trying to kill each other and get back inside, that's when they pause and realize just how exhausted they are. Chests heaving and a layer of sweat covering their skin, they allow their blood to boil down a little before agreeing to come inside. Jin blushes a little when Jet grins at her.

"That was a good match," Jet says, and for once, Zuko has to agree with him.

"Oh, you know," Jin laughs, heart still fluttering in excitement, "our Zuko always was one tough cookie to beat."

They all freeze simultaneously. Jin, out of horror that she just unleashed Zuko's real name, and so soon, damn it, so soon. Zuko, out of apprehension that maybe, just maybe, Jet doesn't know all that much about Ozai and his criminal empire after all.

But Jet is staring at the two in shock, and then angry realization. Barely three days, and already their cover is blown. He retreats slowly, not daring turn his back on them and not saying good-bye. They watch him leave silently. Zuko tries not to blame Jin, she doesn't even know the reason for their need for disguise. She merely received heavy hinting from Uncle Iroh that Jet may 'confuse' their names with a bad bunch that the boy knows. But it's out in the open now, and they don't know what to expect.

* * *

><p>Dinner at the homeless shelter is always loud, cheerful, and borderline chaotic. Aang and Sokka help the kids sit down on their mis-matched chairs in the kitchen, setting food down on the round lazy susan (the best invention since cooked meat, Sokka claims) and breaking up fights. Katara stays late out front waiting on the soup kitchen line. Sometimes their dad comes and helps, if he's not too busy. Sometimes their Gran Gran tries to help too, but Katara shoos her away. When the three of them can finally sit together and wipe the very last morsels from their plates, it's usually a happy occasion.<p>

Until Jet starts trying to break down the door.

"Aang! Are you there? I just found this out, _shit_ it's important, you gotta let me in! Hey Sokka you bozo, open this door before I chew your ponytail off, you…" he trails off pathetically into broken off mumbles when he sees Katara at the doorway, her disapproval ever the greeting. "…you gorgeous piece of art!" Jet exclaims immediately, face falling seemingly into his trademark smile and wink. "Hey there, lovely, long time no see."

"What are you doing here?" Katara demands, cursing herself for almost falling for his charm, _again_. "I thought they locked you up in juvenile hall."

"They did. But I'm back for you," Jet smiles. Katara merely snorts in disbelief. From over her shoulder, Aang peers at Jet with a guarded curiosity. "I just got out, first thing I did was come to you."

"Jet," Aang says suddenly, "you were released a few days ago. I know this for a fact. Where've you been this whole time?"

Jet blinks, _oh shit_ written all over his face, while Katara simply glares, now waiting for a proper explanation. "Oh, did I say that? I meant to say, first thing I did was to get a job, so I could make an honest man's living, of course."

"So you have a job now?" Katara asks. Jet doesn't miss the sarcastically accusing tone in her voice. "Great, where is it?"

"…Actually," Jet says uneasily, "I just quit." Katara almost slams the door in his face, and it would've squished the hand leaning on the door frame as well, but Jet stops her. "Hear me out, please. I had a reason for quitting. The place is called the Jasmine Dragon, a tea shop at the edge of the inner city. The owner and nephew are related to _Ozai_. This is dangerous stuff, real too. I swear, hear me out."

Katara, still torn between kicking Jet out of her life for good and offering him a second chance, glances at Aang. "Your call," she says softly, and Jet suddenly feels a burn of jealousy at the mutual understanding between the two. "Do we let him in and believe him this time? You remember what he did."

All this time, Aang has simply looked at Jet with his large eyes. Clear, grey, and overwhelmingly intimidating, those eyes make Jet feel as if his heart is being weighed against a feather. But he is relieved when Aang doesn't hesitate in saying, "C'mon Katara, let him in. Anything related to Ozai is important."

Katara finally steps out of the way, and Jet strides in smilingly. "Glad there aren't any problems, then."

"Oh, there still are," Sokka rolls his eyes, not having left the table in favor of gobbling down his meal. He glances at Katara, who still looks rather huffy, and grins amusedly. "Heh, so glad I don't have any ex issues."

Nobody bothers telling him that's because his only girlfriend died of cancer before he could really do anything about it. They aren't that insensitive, after all.

* * *

><p>Zuko is Ozai's son. Everybody knows that, even if nobody talks about it. His screams for attention from Ozai have reached far more ears than he could have intended. Azula's name is kept much further in the shadows, partially because she is naturally more discreet about her activities, and partially because nobody dares share her name for fear of her seventeen-year-old wrath. Nearly nothing is known of Mushi, whose real name Jet still does not know, but if Zuko calls him Uncle, then he must be Ozai's brother.<p>

"Or maybe Mushi's from his mother's side," Jet says thoughtfully. "The old man is way too nice to be directly related to that scumbag Ozai. Zuko, on the other hand, I think is deranged."

"Oh, sounds like somebody we know," Sokka pipes up before Katara has the chance to elbow him in the gut.

"You think this is a laughing matter?" Jet demands. "We all know Ozai is real, he's not some myth people tell baby drug dealers 'and you better behave, or the boss will get you!' We know that every man in this world has family. And _that's_ his family. They must be up to something really dangerous. Whatever it is, we need to stop them."

"We're not stopping anything," Katara argues vehemently, "especially you. I don't want any more innocent lives hurt or gone. Who knows what you might do while you think you're saving someone? Sometimes, when you have your heart set on the greater good, you just become this...monster, and you don't even realize it!"

Though slightly hurt from Katara's bitting remarks, Jet doesn't have a chance to defend himself. "And just how many Zuko's do you think there are in this city?" Sokka comments. "Anyway, you haven't found evidence of them doing anything illegal. They're just running a tea shop, for flippin' sake! The worst this Zuko guy has probably done is give someone the wrong order of tea."

"Wait," Aang says suddenly, "what does Zuko look like?"

Silence. Everyone stares at him. Jet raises his eyebrows. "Pale, black hair, a scar on his left eye. Shorter than me. Why? Have you seen him?"

"…I've saved him," Aang says quietly. "Twice."

Everyone stares at him in disbelief, and then Jet explodes. "You what? You _saved _that piece of shit when he's obviously dangerous, like his dad, and downright _evil_—"

"The first time he was in trouble, okay?" Aang snaps, surprising even Katara with the venom in his voice. "He was helpless, what was I supposed to do?"

"And what about the second time?" Katara asks, an edge in her voice as her eyes settle on his bandaged arm. She stares at it suspiciously, especially recalling how Aang wouldn't say from whom he got hurt. "Aang, how did you get that cut?"

"It was from Zuko, wasn't it?" Jet demands when Aang doesn't say anything. "Shit, I can't believe it! Does he really deserve saving, after that? How could you defend someone like him?"

Aang is silent, not because he doesn't want to answer, but because he doesn't know how. The scarred boy is set on walking on a dark road, and he desires nobody's help. But there is something soft and lonely in Zuko that he has found, and feels obligated to protect. Aang is a firm believer in the difference between guilty, and conflicted. Zuko, he thinks to himself, must be the latter.

As Aang stares at the ashes of the fireplace, highlighted eerily from the moonlight seeping through the window, he can only hope he's right.

* * *

><p><strong>AN** – I counted about five minor pairings mentioned, so it's gossip time.

Jet and Zuko are perfectly compatible only in the physical sense, and any step toward a deeper mental connection might send them both off the deep end. The Jin/Jet is random, cute, and fleeting. Jet/Katara always cracks me up, and I think they should stay exes; they just work better that way. I'm a firm believer in a solid Kataang friendship, nothing more. And Yue is a much stronger character in death, so Sokka can keep jacking off to her memory in the shower; it makes it romantically tragic.


	6. My Chick Bad

**Hit N Run**

**Summary **– Zuko, the troubled firstborn of a ruthless gangster. Aang, the mischievous young vigilante. They meet on a rainy night, and their story opens the clouds.

**Warning – **This story includes violence, gang crime, rape, and homosexual relations.

**Disclaimer – **Nothing of ATLA belongs to me.

**A/N** - For those of you on the east coast, I'm sure you felt the impact of Hurricane Irene. And it was devastating. No, I'm serious, four days without power and manually flushing toilets is really devastating. But I'm back and posting now.

Leave your funny hurricane stories in the reviews.

* * *

><p>On any given day, the shelter has ten children running around.<p>

Originally a simple but large suburban-style house, Kanna was the first to remodel it to suit the needs of young children without a home. She had walls taken out, useless furniture put into storage, and then it became spacious everywhere. A haven for many people at a time, as many as they could fit. Children were allowed to stay overnight, they had horrors in their real homes to run away from, or no home to run away from at all. Adults were invited to stay during the day, have a hot cup of coffee and something to eat. They were recommended to employers or rehab centers, but sometimes they just wanted somewhere to sit in peace.

Now, Katara is looking for a new installment.

"I was thinking," she says casually over breakfast, Jet and Sokka squabbling over the last drops of orange juice, "that maybe we should start teaching women self-defense here."

They pause. Then Sokka bursts into laughter. "Self-defense? Women?" He chortles, now spilling the orange juice and making Jet swear all over the place. "What's there to learn besides screaming 'fire' and whacking guys with your purse?"

She purses her lips. "_No_, I'm talking about real self-defense techniques. Where to hit, how to hit, tips on what to do when you go out at night. Women need to know these things, especially with the rape rate around here, it's getting higher! And not just that. Any physical threat, from a mugger, even from a classmate or relative—Sokka, stop _laughing_!"

Jet is looking at her doubtfully, but skepticism she can handle, because she can simply wave it off as ignorance. Sokka is downright hooting at her, filled with amusement, and that she has no choice but to call stupidity.

"Katara," he says, shaking his head as he tries to control himself, except not really, "let me tell you, it's not in a girl's _nature_ to fight. That kind of spirit just isn't in her soul. If you really wanna help, you should be handing out pamphlets with help hotline numbers or something."

"I was hoping you'd say that," Katara says, a knowing smile suddenly making its way on her face. "That's why I thought a demonstration would come in handy."

As if on cue, a confident-looking young woman with short hair and violet eyes enters the room. Both Sokka and Jet look shocked that the combination of girl, boxy uniform, and the outcome of HOT is possible. But what really surprises Sokka is the stern police officer following her.

"Dad? What are you doing here?" Sokka says, suddenly sitting up straighter.

"I'm the head of the board of directors," Chief Hakoda says, his cold blue eyes crinkling slightly in amusement at his son's surprise. "And Suki here is a top-notch martial arts instructor. I handle her payment, so I decide if we hire her. She's agreed to show us some forms, as well as demonstrate how she'd fight off an attacker."

"How about I—" Jet begins, but Sokka beats him to it.

"No, _I'll_ do it."

Enlivened with a new determination, Sokka narrows his eyes, gets up from his seat, and strolls right up to the violet-eyed minx. "So, Suki is it?" He says in the most intimidating, manly voice he can muster. "I hope you understand, we don't mess around here. So if you got nothing but fancy dancing and hair flipping to show for, you're out of luck. We need a real fighter."

Suki listens, eyes silent and challenging in a manner that Jet finds impressive and Katara knows well from watching her classes beforehand. When Sokka continues to stand there, studying her, she replies by smiling widely, "Let's go to the back then, shall we?" and breezes past him to the back door. Sokka's jaw hangs open.

"A couple words and your pants are practically off," Jet whispers to him when the others are out of earshot, smiling snidely, "no game, my friend, no game at all."

Sokka whips around to glare at him. "Game? Don't lecture me on game, you turn into a sorry puddle of mud for Katara to walk over whenever you see her!"

"I've let her do a lot more than _walk_ over me," Jet winks, satisfied in seeing Sokka's blood boil. "Riled up yet? Good. Now go over there and show that little girl who tops in this world."

As Sokka and Suki ready themselves and engage in another small staring contest, Jet takes a step to the side, where Katara and Chief Hakoda stand. "So," he says in his most polite voice, because that is Katara's father after all, "how good is Suki, anyway?"

Father and daughter exchange secretive glances, and then smile. "You'll see," the Chief says simply, knowing eyes now set out to watch the match. Jet looks and sees Suki gracefully stretching an arm full of lean muscle. He refrains from gulping. Poor, poor Sokka.

* * *

><p>Poor Sokka indeed, because by the time they're done, Suki is signing an employment contract while Sokka can't seem to move properly. "Ohh," he groans, gingerly feeling the bruises blossoming on his backside. "How in the seven hells did they get <em>there<em>?"

Jet lets out a low whistle. "Wow man, _bummer_," he teases, and Sokka doesn't laugh at his joke.

Suki takes turns conversing with Chief Hakoda and Katara, nodding in agreement and offering her suggestions. They decide for her to come to the shelter twice a week for six weeks. If the women enjoy it, they would continue, and possibly give lessons to children. Only martial arts centered around self-defense, Chief Hakoda warns her, nothing that would give them any violent ideas. She agrees fervently, and gratefully bids him farewell.

"Hey tiger," Suki says once she's done and turned around, "need some help?"

Sokka looks up irritably, and Jet fully expects him to snap out some smart-ass remark and tell her to fuck off while he's at it. Instead he smiles grumpily and says, "Collecting your prize, huh?"

Suki almost giggles as she helps him to his feet. "So you admit it?" she asks. "Girls can fight too."

Sokka huffs softly. "Yeah, I was wrong, shoot me. No, don't shoot me. I bet you have fuel packed into your boobs or something, and it unleashes like Austen Powers when you're angry. Ka-pow!" Suki gives him an odd look, and Sokka begins to laugh at himself. Katara covers her face in embarrassment. "Alright, but no jokes this time, you're _really_ good."

"Thank you," Suki says.

"And how was I?" Sokka says hopefully, "pretty good for an amateur, huh?"

"No," she says simply, and Sokka's face drops, but then she smirks and says, "but I admire a guy who can lose with style."

Jet watches as they flirt their way inside, shaking his head in disbelief. Just as Sokka finally makes Suki laugh out loud at something he says, they almost crash into Aang at the doorway. Sokka almost falls on his ass, _again_, he stresses.

"Oh, sorry—hey, what happened to you?" Aang stares at Sokka's frazzled appearance. "You look like you got run over, or something."

"This happened," Sokka replies sullenly, pointing at Suki with an equally sullen finger.

Aang nods approvingly at Suki. "Good work."

"Wait, what?"

Aang waits for Katara and Jet to come inside with them, and by the time they're all sitting down with a drink in Aang's hand and some ice on Sokka's, Aang decides to speak. "So," he clears his throat awkwardly, "I think Zuko might be stalking me."

In their stunned shock, Jet is the first one to speak. "I knew it!" he exclaims, almost proudly. He turns to Katara and Sokka. "Jesus, see? I was telling the truth all this time! Zuko's up to no good. Aang saw for himself, he's out to get him—"

"Well actually," Aang interrupts, "he's not very _good_ at it. Just the fact that I noticed is proof enough. You'd think that if he really wanted to hurt me, he'd put more effort into it, right?" He looks off sideways, thoughtful. "He's almost embarrassingly bad, actually."

"Aang, tell us what you mean," Katara says, obviously not wanting to believe Jet but still expressing concern over Aang's safety. "What's going on?"

Aang clears his throat, and starts to recount the past couple of days…

* * *

><p><em>He watches the cashier at the jewelry store hide money in his pockets when he thinks nobody's looking. Aang knows it's a bit early to whip out the mask, but he really can't resist scaring the greedy man as he goes to the lavatory.<em>

_Sure enough, he screams when he sees the orange mask in the mirror, and quick as lightning Aang snips his pockets. As the cashier runs out to the front to complain to his boss about a no-good prankster lurking in the bathroom, cash flows out of his coat. And he can see from her plump, heavily powdered face that she is not happy at all._

_Before long, Aang exits the bathroom and leaves the store, no one sparing him a second glance as everyone focuses on the open fight between manager and cashier. Only one pair of golden eyes stare at him shamelessly as he stuffs his mask in his backpack and runs down the street. He pretends not to notice as a constant set of footsteps follow him._

* * *

><p><em>Aang works odd jobs and part-times, anywhere and anyone who would hire a fifteen-year-old. When he goes to the amusement park, it's for both fun and work, and right after he pays for his ticket, he sets to begin his research. "Hey, how do you work that thing?" he asks the bored-looking operator of the ride closest to the entrance.<em>

_Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a scarred face arguing with a park photographer. "No, do I look like I want my picture taken? Leave me alone!" he snaps, avoiding Aang's eyes and pretending to meander around. He stands in line for the ride Aang is observing._

"_Oh, I get it," Aang says as employee explains to him the on-off button. "A fifteen-year-old could do that, right? Is there anything difficult around here I should know?"_

_He points to the Leaping Frog, a much more manual ride with small children. Aang makes his way there just as Zuko, who is two spots away from the front of the line, immediately pushes his way out. "This looks like a stupid ride anyway," he offers in explanation to those who ask what's the idea here, why can't he just go on board like a normal person._

_Aang watches, amused, as he gets in line for the Leaping Frog._

* * *

><p><em>It's clear that Zuko knows what he looks like behind the mask, but Aang won't let him know where he lives. So that evening when Aang's stomach begins to growl for the shelter's dinner, he walks into an apartment building, takes an elevator three floors up, and then leaps out the window onto a branch. He can watch from here.<em>

_Sure enough, Zuko appears at the door. "I'm looking for a bald kid, about this tall, he's got striped yellow sneakers and a brown backpack, have you seen him?" Aang looks at his striped yellow sneakers and brown backpack, and thinks wow, not bad. "Yes, I'm asking if he lives here. This is what I was told! Excuse me! Hello, can you help me?"_

_Seeing Zuko give up with the people going in and out of the door, he goes into the building himself in search of him. Confident that it's now safe to come out, Aang slips down the tree and runs back to the shelter._

* * *

><p>"Alright Jet," Sokka snickers, "even you have to admit that's pretty bad."<p>

"He's _searching_ for Aang," Jet snaps back. "It doesn't matter how much he _sucks_ at it. He's making it blatantly obvious that he's hunting for Aang."

"Hunting?" Katara raises an eyebrow. "You make him sound like an animal."

"He _is—_"

"Wait, isn't your dad Chief of police?" Suki demands of Sokka and Katara. "Why don't you just go to him if you're so concerned?"

Aang shakes his head adamantly. "No, I don't want to get the police involved. Zuko hasn't done anything wrong yet. And besides," he says, looking at Katara, "your dad is busy enough as it is."

Katara clearly seems to want to raise the problem of Aang's arm, but knowing that he's taken the bandages off and she's seen the healed wound herself, she decides not to mention it.

"But we still need to find out what he's up to," Jet says firmly, "otherwise if you keep goading him like that—" he ignores Aang's interruption of "I'm not _goading_ him!" "—then eventually...you're gonna find yourself in some deep shit."

Suki observes their curious faces, Aang wary but Jet fierce, Katara worried but Sokka rather excited. An idea pops up, and she smiles playfully. "I might know someone who can help. I could bring her over tomorrow, it's Saturday. She's really, and I mean _really_ good at what she does."

At this, Sokka's whole frame droops slightly. "Great," he mutters, "another female out to kick my ass."

* * *

><p>"Everyone," Suki's voice announces, "meet Toph, private investigator."<p>

They all stand up to greet her, and it's not a pretty sight. Toph is a squat-looking girl who looks like she's stepped straight out of a Sherlock Holmes film, except her pipe emits cherry-scented bubbles instead of tobacco smoke, her monocle is obviously fake and of no use to her, and she wears a leather motorcycle jacket instead of a trench coat. She has a blank look on her face, except for the sarcastic twinkle in her eye that's partially covered by her black hair anyway. They stare questionably. _This_ is the girl meant to help them?

"How old are you?" Jet finally asks.

"Fifteen," she says in a stout voice.

"Oh, so Aang's age," he says amicably. "I can get on board with that. I thought you were twelve."

"A common misconception." She blows some more bubbles from her pipe.

"Suki, what's going on here?" Katara, not Sokka, demands skeptically. Sokka has learned to listen to whatever Suki says. "How can she help us? I mean, look at her." She gestures frantically at Toph's height, her choice of dress.

"Ahem," Toph coughs crossly when she hears Katara, gathering their attention. "Look, I run a clean business here, fast and simple, no jokes. I accept payment up front, but if I don't succeed, you get a full refund. Unless I've ate some of it already, of course."

"Ate some of it?" Katara repeats. "What are we paying you with?"

"Candy," Toph says as if it's obvious. "Hard candy, to be exact. Jolly ranchers, jaw breakers, rock candy, if you can get your hands on some good ol' hardened maple syrup, that'll do the trick—"

"We need some real help," Katara insists, turning to Suki again. "Someone who can find out who this Zuko really is, if Aang is in trouble or not."

"Trust me," Suki says, "Toph is the one who can help. I know she doesn't seem like it, but she just sees things in ways others don't. She's an expert in snooping around and finding things out."

"Yeah?" Sokka says thoughtfully, surveying Toph's annoyed stance. "But how do you know?"

"Her parents once hired me as a private instructor," Suki admits. "Before we even started the lesson, she slapped down a folder full of embarrassing pictures, copies of legal documents, things that I've never shown her parents or anyone else in my life, and said that if I tried to baby her like every other teacher has, she'd blackmail me out of business."

"But that's illegal!" Katara cries, outraged.

Suki merely shrugs. "You guys said you didn't wanna go the legal way. She even had my credit card information there too, and threatened to use it if I ever—"

"How did you even get her credit card?" Katara demands, stepping forward to look down threateningly upon Toph.

"I have my ways," she says calmly. "What you gonna do, sugar queen, tell your daddy on me?"

"Sugar queen? Who was the one who demanded buckets of _candy_ for payment?"

"Alright, look, where's Aang?" Toph says loudly, pushing Katara out of the way and looking around. Aang meekly waves his hand. "You want me to find out what this _Zuko_'s doing following you around? Here's the deal. Because the hoity toity princess over there doesn't believe me, I'll work a week for you, free of charge. If I don't come up with anything good by then, you cut me off, I do no more work and I don't get paid. I think that's more than fair."

"Sounds good to me," Aang manages to squeak out, looking half grateful, half terrified.

"Excellente," Toph sings. "I would, however, like a little tip for this house call."

After another round of arguing and a great deal of convincing on Suki's part, Katara grudgingly procures three lollipops from the Halloween drawer. Toph pops them into her mouth at the same time and waves on the way out. "Enjoy your lives! Stay thirsty, my friends!"

"She grows on you," Suki ensures an enraged Katara. "I didn't like her very much either, at first."


	7. Bummer

**Hit N Run**

**Summary **– Zuko, the troubled firstborn of a ruthless gangster. Aang, the mischievous young vigilante. They meet on a rainy night, and their story opens the clouds.

**Warning – **This story includes violence, gang crime, rape, and homosexual relations.

**Disclaimer – **Nothing of ATLA belongs to me.

* * *

><p>Yes, Zuko would say.<p>

No, Azula would say.

Fun, Ty Lee would say.

Who cares, Mai would say.

Yes, Zuko would say, because he is a yes man, even when he means to say no.

No, Azula would say, because she gets whatever she wants, and that includes whatever she doesn't want.

Yes, Zuko would say, because he is persistent.

Yes, Azula would say, because she lies.

You lose, Azula would say, because sometimes she tells the truth.

I won't lose again, Zuko would say, because he hates giving up, even if it means he loses again.

Zuzu, Azula would say, and she's in a good mood and rather snarky at that.

Azula, Zuko would say, and he's not in a good mood at all.

Ty Lee! Mai! Azula would say, and that means she's ready to order them around.

Here I am!, Ty Lee would say, because she likes her job.

Bye, Zuko would say, almost, as he watches his father's secret hit men leave.

Azula's not evil, Ty Lee would say, because she protects her friends.

I'm not evil, I'm just perfect, Azula would say, because she needs no friends.

You're not perfect, you're just batshit insane, Zuko would say, but only when he's drunk.

Why can't we be in a real relationship?, Zuko would say, because he's desperate and he wants the answer, the whole truth.

Who cares, Mai would say.

That's her answer. Nobody says anything anymore.

* * *

><p>"Fine!" Zuko roars, unaware of how loud he is as he practically spits in Mai's face. Despite the ten-minute hopefuls he spent with her and all that persistence and confidence, he knew it would end this way. "Take your fucking <em>who cares<em> outside! You can go and _not care_ as much as you damn want! You _sicken_ me!"

He pauses for breath. Actually, it's Azula who sickens him, watching and smirking as if this is all a show put on for her. Mai looks at him with something akin to sadness, maybe pity. Zuko breathes deeply, wondering if that small stir of emotion she feels is enough to make her reach out, apologize, say of course, she's always wanted more.

It's not. Zuko is still glaring and Mai is still doing nothing, so pretty soon Ty Lee mutters that they really should get going, they have a job to do after all. Mai leaves first, and Ty Lee soon after. Neither of them elaborate, but then again, they never do.

The sound of Azula clucking her tongue echoes with disapproval. "Zuzu, you have no tact. Is that how you convince a girl to stay in a relationship with you?"

"There was no relationship to begin with," Zuko says. He slumps down on his bed. They had all been in his room above his uncle's teashop. It is his room since high school, ever since staying at home became a little too dangerous for Zuko and Uncle Iroh urged him to move in with him. Near the university and right above his current job. It's a convenient location, especially for avoiding Azula. He hasn't spoken to her since their bar fight, and they never converse when they're in the same room as their father, but now she's tracked him down.

"I hear you haven't had any success with catching the Avatar," she says. So that must be the reason she's here. "I have to say, I'm concerned. So is Father."

"He doesn't think I can handle myself," Zuko says quietly.

"Well, yes and no," Azula says, treading lightly. When Zuko looks up, she knows she has him properly intrigued. "It's still your job, of course, your own task to carry out. Only you can win or fail. But I can help as well. Father asked me to offer assistance."

"You?" he demands, "No. Wait. What assistance?" He tries to sound confident. "How hard can it be to capture the Avatar, he's a teenager."

"No, I don't think it can be that hard," Azula shrugs, "but he's fast. He's clever. He might even be talented, for all I know. I personally think it's an attitude problem he has."

Zuko ponders for a moment. Azula might be right, the Avatar could easily fight solely with martial arts, but he's cheeky instead. He goes out of his way to embarrass his victims, creating schemes to humiliate the criminals in front of the police. In this way, he's become an attacker of his own. And mocking though he may be, there is always a certain level of pride attached to a winning attacker.

"If you agree," Azula says, glad that Zuko has taken the time to mull it over slightly, "then I would gladly help, say, take him down a notch." Azula smirks. "Then ball's in our court, he's there for the taking."

He recognizes that look in her eyes. It's clever and excited, even a little maddening. Azula is hatching plans, but suddenly Zuko isn't so sure. He knows the kinds of dirty fighting Azula employs. Ty Lee's paralyzing tactics and Mai's knife-throwing are nothing compared to the ways she plays with fire. Liberally-used kerosene and matches are only the beginning, Azula carries flamethrowers and tasers like most girls carry cell phones and lipsticks. And for some reason, Zuko doesn't want to impose that kind of pain on the Avatar.

"No," Zuko says, perhaps a little too firmly because his tone causes Azula's eyes to narrow.

"Why not?" she demands testily. "Afraid I'll be too harsh on him?"

"I'll be plenty harsh on my own," Zuko says, "this is my job. You stay out of it."

"You're making a big mistake," Azula practically spits. "I know you, Zuko, you have a soft heart. You talk big, but the Avatar is younger, smaller. Your instinct is to be merciful. In the end, there's no way you'll pull through. You'll fail, again, and who'll be there to pick up the pieces?"

"The answer is still no," Zuko says stubbornly.

Azula can see when she's losing, but she'll only go kicking and screaming. "You might as well just hand him over to be right now, Lord knows the minute you have him you'll just let him get away."

Instead of answering, Zuko stands up and throws on a jacket.

"Where are you going?" she demands.

"Out," Zuko says, "and so are you. Out. Of my room."

Azula kicks the door open with a scream.

* * *

><p>It's an abnormally cool spring evening, quite like the night Zuko first runs into the Avatar, he realizes. The familiarity chills him far more than the air itself. But once he's sure Azula has left, unhappy and dangerous as she is, he strolls almost casually into a local pharmacy. Talking back to Azula is strangely uplifting, he thinks to himself with a grim smile.<p>

People say he could use some fun here and there.

A box of eye drops, for Uncle's dry eyes during evening shifts. A bottle of foot odor powder, for Uncle's unbelievably sour feet that Zuko can smell from a mile away. A packaged facial hair scissors, because Uncle is old-fashioned and still refuses to use the electronic razor Zuko shoves in his face. Zuko stares at his small shopping basket, filled to the brim with products suited for Uncle Iroh.

"I spend more money on him than I have for myself in an entire lifetime," he grumbles, turning a corner and preparing to walk down the next aisle to the cash register. Except it's not as empty as he thinks; the Avatar is there. Looking like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar as he holds a box of Venus Gillette razors in midair.

"Um," Aang says unsteadily, as if the razors are the reason Zuko is staring at him with the look of a crazed hunter, "these aren't for me, I'm shopping for a friend!" When he sees the pile of old-man products Zuko is carrying, he says sheepishly, "Oh, you too, huh?"

For a moment, Zuko could do nothing but stand and goggle at his target standing right in front of them in a place where there is nobody else around but the cashier snoozing behind the counter. Nobody. "Finally," Zuko says quietly.

Aang's eyes don't widen in surprise. He knew this was coming.

Zuko crashes into the aisle of feminine care as Aang leaps out of the way—and oh shit he's running on _top_ of the aisles how did he even get up there—so Zuko makes a dash for the refrigerated section—the glass doors sturdy enough for him to make a running jump off the wall—crashes Aang in the air just as the boy tries to sidle his way out of it—they hurtle sideways, a perfect mess—Zuko trying to grab his limbs with every quick jab and swipe he knows—Aang wiggles free every time—chases him down each aisle—he finds him—now they can finally fight it out.

Except Aang has the most peculiar fighting style he's ever seen. It's not hard and confrontational, as Zuko's is. Something about it almost reminds him of Ty Lee's, light, quick, agile. But even then it's not the same, for Ty Lee is always bound to sneak up and stab you at every angle. But Aang seems to have a different objective. Then, Zuko realizes the difference.

The Avatar doesn't _want_ to fight.

He avoids it at all costs. He hasn't landed any hits because he doesn't try any to begin with. He dodges and evades and is quicker on his feet than air itself. That way, Zuko keeps hitting baby products and birthday cards rather than flesh and bone. At this point, Zuko realizes he's panting softly. He monitors his breath. Now he understands exactly what people say when they marvel at his speed. The wiry teenager is practically inhuman.

Half the store is on the floor. Zuko almost trips on a pile of flashy-covered books as Aang evades him once again. It's more than a little annoying, it infuriates him. He takes a moment to hold his breath, seeking the sounds of Aang's soft footsteps sprinting through the store. Coming out of nowhere with an iron grip on Aang's wrist, Zuko throws him against the wall and holds him steadfast.

"Why won't you fight back?" he roars.

Aang takes a second to stop struggling to look up at him, and suddenly Zuko is struck by the purity of his looks. No wonder the Avatar is hero of many, his hands are clean. Heaving above him, Zuko is the underground crime prince. He feels like a raging monster of black locks and a mutilated eye. The contrast is there, so undeniable, from Zuko's illegally expensive wind breaker to Aang's bright but shabby hoodie.

Aang gives him an uneasy smile. "What is there to fight against?"

Zuko narrows his eyes.

"What are you fighting for, Zuko?" Aang continues. Zuko is momentarily shocked (_how does he know my name?_) but there are more pressing concerns, like when Aang says, "do you think handing me over will protect you from your own enemies?" Zuko subtly remembers the night Aang saved him. So he understands. "I'm sorry that I have to be your target." The Avatar knows that too. Shit, he has every advantage. "But _I'm_ not your enemy. I'm your _friend_."

Something deep inside Zuko gurgles with rage. The Avatar might think he's a good guy, and Azula might take him for a wimp, but Zuko was going to prove he was capable of this. His hands reach to clasp Aang's neck. His thoughs run a mile a minute. He'll choke him, cut off Aang's air supply until he's limp, unconscious, easy to transport. If people ask, he'll say his friend passed out, he's helping him home. And then—

A powerful kick to the groin leaves Zuko in a painful stance, gasping in shock. Then he feels Aang _biting_ the hands at his neck.

He underestimated him. He took his ambivalence for defeat, not strategy, and now he understands that even the Avatar is prepared to fight dirty.

Nursing bleeding knuckles, Zuko engages in their first hand-to-hand combat but knows he's losing. Strong as he may be, Aang cheats. He wretches open the nearest container, which turns out to be a tall bottle of Dove shampoo, and hurls it at Zuko's face. It covers his hair, creeps into his eyes. Zuko wipes it off within seconds but Aang has already disappeared. At this point, he could still be in the store, or he could have escaped by now. It's time to retreat, recuperate, figure out just why he fucked up so badly. Frustrated and humiliated, Zuko switches aisles and grabs the basket of goods for Iroh, conveniently forgetting to pay for it as he storms out of the store. The alarm goes off immediately.

"What's going on?" the cashier says groggily, rousing from his nap. Aang watches from the window as Zuko disappears down the street. The store is left a mess. He groans inwardly. How can anyone sleep through that ruckus, he reasons, but get woken up by a few beeps?

At this rate, he'll be here all night. Sokka will be furious at him for not getting his favorite razors.

* * *

><p>Yes, Aang would say.<p>

Yes, Aang would say, because he's an optimist.

No, Zuko would say, because he thinks he's a pessimist.

Fight, Zuko would say, because that is what he was taught.

Defend, Aang would say, because that is what he taught himself.

Hope, Zuko would say, because that's what he sees when he sees Aang.

Hope, Aang would say, because he's glad to give it to people.

I'll capture you, Zuko would say, because it's practically the only thing he's living for right now.

Really?, Aang would say, because he's unconvinced.

I can't, Zuko would say, though not out loud.

Why not?, Aang would say, because he'd like the chance to talk to Zuko, really talk this time.

I don't know, Zuko would say. He really doesn't.


End file.
